The Best One
by Oleander's One
Summary: After the Seekers, Hawke struggles to make sense of the changes. She seeks out the one who knows her best to answer one last question.


_A small gift for the extraordinary mille libri, my friend and beta. Many thanks to Shakespira for her excellent guest beta and wonderful suggestions._

* * *

Varric knew Hawke had returned before she crossed the threshold of her Hightown estate. Word of her return spread rapidly, from the new Viscountess down to Gamlen, still marking time in his shanty in Lowtown. Few knew before Varric—the news quickly relayed to him by the legion of orphans whom he paid to watch her street, tucked into hedgerows and hidden in the shadows cast by gargoyles.

Truthfully, he knew Hawke was returning when she accepted far too few sovereigns and a 28-year-old pony in exchange for her family's small farm outside Lothering in Ferelden. To his credit, he ensured that his contact in the tiny village made his presence known to her, and that his purpose was to communicate what she wished him to know, not to spy on her. Winnowing the grains of truth from the improbable and highly amusing stories that his contact dutifully reported took patience and a deep knowledge of the sender, but Varric gleaned enough for his peace of mind. Barely.

~oOo~

"Orana seems modestly pleased by your return, Hawke," Varric ventured. They had retired to the small den off the great hall following a lavish welcome home dinner that the elf had spent two days and a great deal of her mistress's coin preparing. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but thirteen courses seems a bit excessive."

Hawke chuckled as she handed Varric a tumbler and sank into the chair opposite. Backlit by the glow of the fire, the amber liquor was a shade off her dark honey-blond. Varric couldn't remember seeing Hawke's hair loosed from its neat braids; it fell about her shoulders in a shining wave, and lent a softness that matched the new calm he saw in her.

"I'd advise letting the whiskey breathe a bit. Old Barlin's a bit of a character, and every time he blows up his still, he puts it back together in new and interesting configurations. The only thing that Dane could use his last batch for was to strip wax."

"Hawke. Who do you think you're talking to?" Varric took a judicious sip. "Smoo—"

She laughed at his sputtering cough. "Mm, yes, very smoo."

Varric cleared his throat and continued. "I have to tell you, I was surprised to hear that you had settled in Lothering when the Seekers finally released you. Didn't you find it a bit small after Kirkwall and your estate?"

"It was different, I'll give you that. But a nice different, at least for a while."

"Camping in the rough turned out to be that much fun, Hawke?"

She laughed—that full-bodied, sunny laugh that he hadn't heard since the day he'd accompanied her home to find Gamlen and a vase of white lilies awaiting her. "I'll have you know I built a cabin. A small cabin. Very small. All right, it was a shed with a hearth." She poured them both a bit more whiskey.

"What else did you find to do halfway to nowhere?"

Hawke started ticking off points on her fingers. "I made my own soap; it burned my hands. It made an excellent defoliant, though. I also taught myself to cook." She thought for a moment. "Task for tomorrow—restock healing potions at Elegant's."

"At least you didn't poison Boone."

"Don't impugn my dog's intelligence—he wouldn't eat it." She smothered a grin. "Let's see … I raised one goat, two hens, a rooster, and a turkey. The hens pecked the rooster into impotence, the turkey immediately flew up onto the roof and stayed there for two years, and the goat made such single-minded and unwholesome advances to Boone that I had to sell her to Miriam."

Varric chuckled. "I'm still at a loss as to why you stayed away so long? I—Kirkwall was entirely too sedate without you."

Pale green eyes met his, then flicked away to the huge bay mabari stretched out next to her chair. "I just needed some time, I think." She ran her fingers through the dog's coarse fur.

"What did they do to you, Hawke?" Varric asked gently.

"At first? Nothing." The animation left Hawke's face as she stared into the flames. "I have to give it to the Seekers—they are efficient. A month of confinement where I couldn't even glimpse the person whose hand pushed the food into my cell, and I would have said anything, just to hear another person's voice ask the question." She blinked and wiped her eyes. "Fortunately, there were few secrets I had left to tell. They already had you and Aveline. I didn't know where Fenris, Isabela and Merrill were, and everyone else that I cared about was already dead."

"Hawke …"

"All of the qualities that made me who I thought I wanted to be—my physical strength, my focus, my drive, my passion—they took that all from me. Some of it returned, but it was as if I needed to learn how to use it again. Some of it never returned."

Varric watched her as she bent to scratch the mabari's ears. He had been shocked when she met him at the door. Hawke had always seemed larger than life—the steely core at the center of their motley band, lending them strength from a seemingly inexhaustible supply. The strength was still there, but it had taken him time to recognize it, changed as it was. Flexible, tough—the tensile strength of a crossbow's limb, as opposed to the rigidity of a broadsword.

Boone shifted his bulk to lay his head in Hawke's lap. Absorbed in the restless movement of slender fingers through short fur, Varric missed her next few words. He hastily shifted his attention. "… building the cabin would help tone my muscles and give me time to learn how to be around my fellow man again."

"And dwarves?" Varric heard himself ask, silently cursing the insidious effects of the alcohol.

Hawke paused, then nodded slowly. "And dwarves. Dwarves that can make me laugh with the twitch of an eyebrow, or cry with a single word. Dwarves who can make a weapon sing, and who can hold a crowd rapt by the silences between their words." She finally met his gaze. "A dwarf who understands me on a level deeper than my family ever did. One dwarf, the best one, to whom I never dared voice that last secret, the one he already knew, for fear of losing everything."

"Hawke," he said softly, when he could speak.

Her hand stilled where it lay on the mabari's shoulder. Finally, she rose and stepped to his chair, sinking down at his side. Her expression stole his words; the joking banter fled. She looked at him with eyes that he had never seen so open, the slight opacity that the warrior had shown even him, gone. His best friend, the woman who inspired words to flow as they never had in his life previous, now took them all.

All but one. "Hawke."

"Varric." Almost apologetically, she laid her hand on his cheek and leaned in to brush his lips with hers. Before he could stop himself or remember any one of the reasons he had always held himself back, he caught her to him. Hawke's mouth opened beneath his; he could feel her pulse in the soft skin under his fingertips, smell the warm vanilla of her skin, taste it mixed with the fiery whiskey on her lips. A dozen years of ruthlessly suppressed need and desire battered at his will, threatened to dissolve that last barrier. Varric's heart hammered in his chest; he wondered if Hawke could feel it as she clung to him.

Staggered by this altered and maddening tension between them and cursing his own timidity, he took her by the arms and gently held her away. "You're killing me here, Hawke."

The fleeting stab of pain in her eyes was quickly hidden by a calm acceptance. "I understand, Varric." She touched his cheek briefly and stood, turning away from him to warm her hands at the fire. "Barlin's hooch is still as potent as ever—I think I'm for sleep. If you're not busy tomorrow, I could use you and Bianca to back me up. Orana said she's heard some rustling down in the basement—could be anything from moles to magisters burrowing around down there."

Varric forced a chuckle and patted Bianca's gleaming stock affectionately. "That sounds like just the thing; she's been mightily bored the last few years."

Hawke smiled and moved toward the hall, half-turning to him at the door. "It's good to be back."

"You are back to stay."

She hesitated for just a moment. "Yes, of course. Goodnight, Varric."

"'Night, Hawke."

Varric sat for some time, watching the fire and sipping the last of his whiskey. "Messere Varric?" Orana stood at the door. "Would you like some tea or sandwiches? There are still custards left from supper." She smiled shyly, obviously remembering the extra portion he'd accepted at dinner.

"Let me ask you something, Orana. What are your thoughts on risking something good for the chance of something better, if there is a chance that you might lose the good thing entirely?"

"I—I'm not sure. I would … need to think about that?" she replied softly. Varric nodded and turned towards the fire, only to turn back a moment later when he realized that she hadn't moved. The elf hung her head, eyes on the floor. "That's not true. I know that I would risk it. My life with Mistress Hadriana was not pleasant, nor was it unpleasant, exactly. It was comfortable enough—my duties were clear, and we were rarely beaten without cause. I was safe. Kirkwall, this estate … it was so different—different duties, a different mistress. I was very unhappy at first, even as kindly as everyone treated me. But I wouldn't trade this life for the old for anything. I'm happier now than I dared dream."

"What helped you decide?"

Orana smiled at him knowingly. "She did, of course. She made it easy." Blushing slightly, she bobbed a curtsey and left him alone.

Varric shook his head and sighed. "Even the elf sees right through you, Tethras. At least Rivaini isn't here—she'd be laughing her ass off." He stood, turning towards the stairs, then stopped and retrieved Bianca. "Hawke won't mind as long as you don't peek."

~oOo~

"Varric," Hawke whispered.

"No."

She snickered; a husky, silky sound that went straight to his undercity. "'No' to what question?" she asked.

"No, I don't regret a thing." He felt it as the last slight tension left her, and she relaxed back against him. He brushed his lips over the nape of her neck, and felt an altogether different tension ripple over her skin.

"Shows what you know. I was going to ask if you snore."

"It is a matter of record that nobles are born without the ability to snore, so sayeth the Shaperate. I'm surprised that they didn't teach you that in noble school, Hawke."

"I grew up a peasant, Varric."

"Mm. Remind me to pick up some ear plugs, for a completely unrelated eventuality." He pressed himself to her back. "Do you, Hawke?"

Hawke threaded her fingers with his. "No. To both questions."


End file.
